


Day Three: Hurt/Comfort

by Gloriousred



Series: Nygmobblepot Week 2018 [3]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Cherry's, Ed's Apartment, Future Fic, M/M, Nygmobblepot Week 2018, The Iceberg Lounge, The Narrows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 15:40:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14084139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gloriousred/pseuds/Gloriousred
Summary: Two Nygmobblepot stories from my sister and I where Oswald has a crisis and Ed comforts him at two different moments in time.





	1. Of Threat Letters and Panic Attacks

**Author's Note:**

> My sister and I's contributions to day three, uploaded late but hopefully good.  
> Chapter 1 is hers (she's trying this idea of maybe making all her stories interconnected. Also, its rated T, and mentions things that happened in Day 2 Chapter 1. It helps to read that first, but I guess it isn't necessary.)  
> Chapter 2 is mine (its the one rated M.)
> 
> Enjoy :)

“I thought you said Lee Thompkins would not receive us in the Narrows,” Oswald said as he looked through the pile of clothes that he somehow had forgotten to pack and left behind at Ed’s apartment in Grundy Street. He was wearing a pair of black dress pants and had picked out a black jacket and a white shirt, which he held in his arm. He was looking for a tie that matched. Riddler, meanwhile, was combing his hair adeptly, mumbling every few seconds before messing it up and trying again. 

“Worth a shot,” was what he received for an answer, right after Riddler cursed under his breath and messed up his hair again 

Oswald turned around, setting the clothes he’d already picked out on the bed, still undone from last night. He’d woken up when Riddler was already awake and preparing breakfast for the both of them. But he remembered the way he’d crawled into bed, between the edge and him, with their hands linked atop his chest - even if Riddler thought he would never know. Oswald smiled at the recollection. He’d treasure it once this partnership went to hell because he could already tell it would. Call him a pessimist. But he’d already lost too many people to not be cautious around those suddenly coming back into his life. It was all so weird - the obsessions with changing his hair, the lower tone of voice, his tenderness. Riddler was aptly named. He was a riddle, in every sense of the word. Annoying. Complicated. Confusing.

Finally somewhat pleased with his hair, Riddler took his characteristic bowler hat and placed it on his head. Oswald turned around to face the clothes, making sure Riddler didn’t catch him staring.  _ No, Oswald, what the hell are you doing? Don’t do this to yourself,  _ he thought.  _ Don’t fall in love with him again. Didn’t you learn from last time? _

“All right. So… what’s going to be our approach?” Oswald asked as he took a burgundy tie, placing it among the pile. He limped to the bed and picked up the white shirt. He started buttoning it up. His cheeks burning, he focused on the silver buttons and not on Riddler. Anything but him. 

Oswald heard footsteps drawing closer. Still facing down, he didn’t notice the other man was standing right in front of him until he had finished putting on his shirt and jacket. Riddler was holding the tie. 

“I remember you aren’t very good at tying these,” Riddler said with a chuckle. He proceeded to place it around Oswald’s neck and started maneuvering a Windsor knot. 

The shorter of the two chuckled. “Well, my mother didn’t know how and my father… I didn’t meet him until after she passed away,” he said, his tone somewhat morose. He took a steadying breath. “He died soon after. So I was never taught how to tie a tie.”

“No worries,” Riddler said, smiling though his tone was respectfully level. “That’s what I’m here for.”

The phrase was oddly familiar and it took Oswald only a few seconds to pin it down. Riddler had said that once before, when he helped him pick out ties and they were Mayor and Chief of Staff. Before Isabelle, and the betrayal, and the gunshot and the river and the ice.

_ What are you playing at, Riddler? Reminding me of better times, when I loved you? _

Oswald straightened his back, suddenly uncomfortable upon realizing how easy it would be for Riddler to choke him right there and then. “You didn’t answer my question,” he pointed out, with an uneasy smile. 

The man in green stepped away, admiring his handiwork. Then, his eyes locked with Oswald’s blue. “You’ll see.” He stepped away. He took his jacket from the bureau in which he placed it the night before and opened the door. His head tilted toward the outside. “Are you coming?” he asked innocently. A smile - or a smirk - decorated his face. 

God, he missed his cane. Oswald limped toward Riddler, picking up a purple and black coat from the pile quickly before exiting the apartment. “You know I hate surprises,” he replied, letting the echo of the hallway carry his message to the taller man. 

* * *

Oswald was not amused. He was standing outside a building with chipping paint and tags across its exterior - nothing particularly strange for Gotham but still unnerving. He hugged the coat closer to his frame as he glared at every person that came even remotely close to him. They backed away, dressed in rags showing their weak limbs. But at least they were fast runners.

One child, however, did not seem intimidated by the feral, bruised, scarred Penguin. She came up with dirty, stringy blonde locks and wells under her eyes. 

“Go away. I won’t give you any money,” he told her, motioning with his hands when she remained standing there. 

She looked down at his legs. “Your feet are funny. Are you Oswald Cobblepot?” she asked. Oswald was surprised. Were they really that characteristic?

He nodded, somewhat charmed by the child. “Why, were you looking for me?”

She didn’t reply, just reached into her pocket and pulled out an envelope. The back side had his name written in gentle cursive, blue ink. She handed it to him. 

Oswald took it, noticing for a brief second her grimy fingernails. He examined the vibrant white envelope in an otherwise dirt-ridden environment. He was about to ask who it was from, but the question remained in his throat when he looked up and found that she had disappeared. He shrugged and returned his attention to the envelope. There was no mailing address, and no name besides his. Not even a stamp. He felt the envelope with two fingers and guessed all there was inside was sheets of paper. He didn’t feel any bundles. 

He was taken out of his concentration by Riddler clearing his throat. “Oswald,” he called. The other man raised his head, stuffing the package into the breast pocket of his coat. “Come on in. Seems luck  _ does  _ favor the brave.”

“ _ Fortune _ , Riddler. But what makes you say that?” he asked in return as he limped toward Riddler who was holding open the door to the establishment. 

If one could call it that. 

As Oswald stepped in, he quickly came to the realization that it was some sort of underground fight club - with a ring, box seats, and of course a bar. He expected to find Lee Thompkins any second. Which is why he was so surprised when he found no one as the head of the establishment. 

“I did a thorough search of this place and found no one. I heard that Lee’s in hospital right now and Grundy’s nowhere to be seen so,” he said as he extended his arms wide -  _ he has always been so dramatic  _ \- to signal the club. “Feel free to get comfy while I gather my things.” 

“Who the hell’s Grundy?”

He flashed a saccharine smile. “If you’ll excuse me,” Riddler said as he disappeared into the depths of the club. 

Taking the opportunity, unsupervised and all, he limped to the bar and grabbed the first bottle he could see along with a glass. He served the amber liquid and downed it. God, one of the worst parts of Arkham was that there was no liquor in the damn place. He relished the burning sensation in his throat, the bitter aftertaste in his tongue. 

Serving himself another glass, he sat on the bar and took out the mysterious package the girl had given him. With a knife on the counter, he opened the envelope, and took out the letter within. His heart stopped at the first line. 

_ How could you do this to Martin? _

Sofia had found out. She knew he had escaped. God, and he hadn’t even thought of Martin, caught up so tightly in Riddler and Grundy Street and that solitary night of peace that seemed so distant and almost dream-like now. A hand flew to his mouth and tears threatened his eyes.  _ Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God _ . How had he been so selfish? So stupid?

With trembling hands he took the glass and downed the drink, as fast as last time but no longer enjoying it. He skimmed through the letter, paying close attention at first but soon zooming out as his eyes glossed over and his heart started beating so fast his chest hurt and he was so terrified he could barely breathe. _ Oh, no, no, no, no, no. _ Just what he’d hoped to avoid. Martin was still a pawn in this game. And he was about to be eaten. 

Until Riddler’s hand was in his shoulder did Oswald realize he was even there. He brushed away his tears with the sleeve of his coat, swallowing back the lump in his throat as he somewhat heard an “Oswald, are you alright?” being asked. 

“I’m trying really hard not to blame you for this,” he whispered in a low growl, facing the counter, his grip on the letter tightening as his hands curled into fists. 

“What do you mean? What’s wrong?” he asked, confusion above all else in his tone. 

_ What’s wrong? What  _ isn’t  _ wrong, you mean. _

Oswald chuckled sardonically. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that Sofia Falcone, who wants me  _ dead _ , found out I was broken out of Arkham two days ago!” His scream echoed in the otherwise empty establishment. “Because you're such a drama queen and busted me out in the middle of the day! That was so conspicuous, it’s a miracle we made it out! And the press were there and she must’ve seen - God, I can’t even look at you, Ed! You  _ killed  _ him!” His voice cracked as tears choked him out and he started sobbing, taking deep breaths to stop but failing. 

Riddler’s eyes widened. With gentle, slow movements he sat on the counter beside him and took his hand. Oswald pushed it away.

“Did you not hear me? This is  _ your  _ fault! He’ll die because of you! Now go away!”

Oswald took the empty glass and threw it blindly at Riddler. His aim was far off - it crashed about five feet from him. He was not startled, though. He was acutely aware of the shorter man’s temper.

“I am  _ not  _ going away, Oswald,” Riddler said, surely but quietly. Oswald noted a shift in the other’s demeanor - not as seismic as when he’d first spoken that stupid alias he persisted on taking on - but still significant. He was reminded of Edward when they were Mayor and Chief of Staff - kind, in his own way, and his friend. “ _ Who _ is going to die because of me?”

Oswald slowed down his breath, rubbing at his eyes. “God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he muttered, covering his face in his hands. He sighed, blinking rapidly, a tear falling every time. “Martin - a boy, an orphan,  _ God _ , such a nice kid. Dead! Because of  _ me _ ! And you!”

Riddler nodded.  _ Martin.  _ “Oswald, you don’t have to apologize. At all. I just need you to breathe with me. Alright? Slow down your breathing with me,” he instructed, talking like he would to a wounded animal. He placed his hand on the other’s again. This time, it stayed. Oswald closed his eyes, and listened to Riddler, breathing to his beat. 

“One, two, three four, inhale.”

_ Blood will be spilt, Oswald.  _

“One, two, three, four, exhale.”

_ His life was in your hands. And you let it fall.  _

“One, two, three, four, inhale.”

_ I’ll show no mercy this time.  _

When Oswald opened his eyes, exhaling, his vision had cleared. Though his breaths were still shallow and his chest still felt constricted, his heart had slowed. Riddler was in front of him, concern above all else in his eyes. He was nodding. He wasn’t grinning. God, why did it have to be  _ him  _ seeing him like this?

“Why do you think Martin’s in danger?” Riddler asked after a moment. His glasses gleamed in the half-light. “Oswald?”

He could only find the strength to take the letter -  _ the paper trembled, his hands were trembling, oh, God _ \- and hand it to Riddler to read. He skimmed it over the edge of his glasses, his eyes widening as he reached the end. He saw his lips form the words,  _ Jesus Christ. _

Riddler looked up from the letter. Oswald sniffled, wiping his eyes with his right sleeve. His temple hurt. “I tried saving him. I faked his death, and had Victor take him far from Gotham. But Victor betrayed me, and he’s probably back here, with Sofia, a knife to his  _ throat  _ -” He stopped. Shuddering, he whispered brokenly, “and it’s my fault. That’s why I was in Arkham. To protect him. Because Jim thought I killed him.”

Riddler nodded. “Honestly, I’m not surprised. Jim took Victor Zsasz’s word over yours? Genius. Sounds exactly like something he’d do.” He started chuckling, but Oswald did not, so he stopped. He cleared his throat. “This is just a letter, though. We can still do something to help the kid. Martin.”

Had Oswald been in a better state of mind, he would not have missed the  _ we.  _ “But I keep seeing his face!” His voice was caught by the lump in his throat. He sighed, and after a moment, continued. “My best has never been enough to save all the people I’ve lost before. My mother, my father, Fish…”

His eyes rested on Riddler’s, an unspoken  _ you  _ hanging thickly in the air. 

“Why would it suddenly be enough now?”

Riddler grinned, cocky as hell and as always. “Because you have me this time around.”

“You don’t know Sofia Falcone,” Oswald replied, shaking his head and laughing at the mere simplicity - and stupidity - of that response. But Riddler stood his ground, confident in his abilities to the point of being delusional. 

“No worries,” he said, echoing his same expression from years long gone and that same morning. “That’s what I’m here for.”

Oswald cocked an eyebrow. “To die?”

“To learn.”

He squeezed Oswald’s hand in his before he stood up. He circled the counter and kneeled on the other side. After rummaging for a moment, he pulled out a chocolate bar. He passed it to Oswald. “Eat it,” he instructed. “It’ll make you feel better.” He rose. 

“Ed,” Oswald called. He turned around, his characteristic smile painted across his face. 

Upon seeing the man’s expression, Riddler’s smile widened. “What is often returned but never borrowed?”

Oswald thought a moment. “Thanks.”

Riddler nodded. Then, he disappeared into the depth of the fight club. Not before he patted the shorter man’s shoulder, a reassuring gesture that said more than anything else could. 

As Oswald bit into the sweet bar tentatively - more gnawing than anything, really - he watched as the green silhouette receded. And for a moment, he believed him. In his annoying, complicated, confusing smarts. In his unwarranted confidence. They could still do something to save Martin. And maybe he didn’t have to be so cautious around those suddenly coming back into his life. 

Maybe, just maybe, they were here to stay. 


	2. Days Like These

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternatively Titled "The Portrait of Oswald Cobblepot"

In the clarity of the mirror, every crease and crevice lining his eyes is impossible to ignore. On evenings when he is particularly fanciful, he assigns each ridge to an incident, a murder, a plot. The greying hairs at his temples are owed to debts paid and profitable contracts signed. It’s his own way of keeping score, just like Zsasz and his battle scars. They’re not daunting, _ In fact, _ he decides as he adjusts his monocle over his right eye,  _ Time has been kind to me after all I’ve done. _

With familiar dedication he gives himself one last look over, the whole process of it almost like a ritual for him instilled long ago during his time as mayor. Once content with the state of his clothes, the Penguin makes his way to the door, donning on his signature fur coat and grabbing hold of his bird-tipped cane. Warmth immediately washes over him in sharp contrast to the cold of the door handle, and a shiver runs through him, making him smile.   

There’s unequivocable pleasurable in descending the stairs into the Lounge before an evening of business, watching as the carefully selected staff place the finishing touches to the atmosphere. With each step of his shoes against the frosted tile, the lighting changes and the soft purple undertones surface from the white. With each tap of his cane against the banister, the band begins to play a soft melody, the drums keeping time to his beat. With each crystallized breath that leaves his lungs faintly smelling of tobacco, the penguins in the centerpiece of the room squeak and splash, awaiting fish. 

The staff don’t look him in the eye as he makes his way across the room, they just go about their business aware of what to do in any situation. He finds himself outside within minutes, saving his favourite part of the setup for the end. In the cool Gotham evening air that could chill a person’s soul, three peaks illuminate in a brilliant violet glow as soon as he presses a button within his coat. A blissful quiet follows, all somehow right once again in the world.  

It is then that he catches a glimpse of the cape. He attempts to talk himself out of it, but he knows from the sweat in his gloved hands, that he is right. Irritated at the Bat’s inability to adhere to their pact not to get near the Lounge, Penguin finds himself walking after him, preparing a speech without consciously deciding to in the back of his head. Facing the imposing back of the Batman, Oswald Cobblepot feels no fear nor height difference, just a self-righteous need to clear out the pest from him property. It would make a most striking image to a passerby, the way the Dark Knight is dwarfed by the Penguin’s presence, leaving at his appearance with hardly any protest. Convinced of his victory and riding high on his sense of justice, he prepares to leave by pulling tighter on his coat before noticing the beat up figure by the end of the alley, standing crooked like a broken branch against the corner. 

If there is something that Oswald has learned over the course of his life is that helping others never turns out well, but it is irresistible once you have been the one being helped out. It doesn’t take him long to act on his impulse, walking over and holding the other man as best he can with his particular gait. Together they make their way almost limply to the back entrance of the club, the familiar height difference between them an uninteresting fact to the Penguin when he’s too busy sneaking a hurt man into his office without disturbing his customers. Eventually and completely single-handedly, they reach the room and Oswald closes the door, proceeding to remove his coat after depositing his guest on a chair.

It is a compulsive habit of his to look in the mirror now. Like Dorian Grey, his obsession lies on the subtle changes occurring that make his age an indelible fact, that might betray how much time has gone by. Looking at his reflection, he finds that his hair has fallen to a state it hadn’t been in years, drooping partially into his eyes, and that small droplets of red decorate his face and hands. Then, in the corner of his vision, he watches as the man behind him removes his bowler hat with flair and flourish, feeling in slow-motion the world spin in an uncanny way. Thoughtlessly, his attention remains riveted to the details that make up his most precious fantasy, ogling as the man painfully removes his deep forest suit jacket, unties his tie, and then undoes the buttons of his white shirt, revealing his exposed chest. Speechless, he stares at Edward Nygma as his knees give out underneath the thunderous, torturous beating of his heart.

“I need water,” the Riddler seems to say, and Oswald finds himself crawling a couple ways to his desk drawer to get a bottle. He proceeds to stand on shaking limbs, handing over the requested item with as much calm as he can muster and without allowing his eyes to stray. “Thank you” is followed by a gasp at the cold of the liquid against burning skin.

“What happened?” Oswald asks to the open air, unsure if Ed will answer but partially wishing he won’t. In his head he sees him standing up without an issue after a little splash of cold water, replacing his discarded clothing and walking out the door without so much as a goodbye. He thinks he likes that outcome, leaving the tables untouched, unchanged by a small moment of carelessness. Then his eyes fall upon his torso, noticing the ache he seems to cradle where skin is clearly irritated, cut through. Batman must have beat him up good, but based on his posture he mustn't have suffered a lot of damage.

“Had a run-in with the Bat. Nothing major. He just became frustrated with one of my riddles,” Oswald finds himself mesmerized by his voice, different and yet the same, as the rest of him. The small chuckle he utters at the end of his answer brews one within him in return, filling him with warmth the way his fur coat always does at the Lounge. 

For what seems like the first time of the evening, both men look at each other with recognition instead of avoidance, as Oswald states with his characteristic wide grin that, “Some of them are rather exasperating.” Ed’s gentle almond eyes smile as brightly as his teeth, his hair tousled by the beating and his hat. His stance on the chair becomes more comfortable then, inching back against the seat to better look up at Penguin. It is at that moment that Oswald realizes their proximity, the way his fingers hunger to touch what never was his. “How did you wound up at the Lounge?” He asks as a substitute to his line of thought, too many sleepless nights could surface from a single taste of the forbidden, thoughts or otherwise.

“Honestly, I was hoping to hide here. Word is that the Bat never enters your club.”

“That presumes that you’d make it past the list and with our mutual history that was highly unlikely, Ed.” He hears himself deny him, his voice as cold as the iceberg centerpiece his penguins live on. He painfully notices the way he misses his characteristic opportunity to brag about his deal with the Bat and his dear old friend Jim Gordon, how he doesn’t even brag about his club, or how he spends his time ranting in his own defence. “I mean, you did try to kill me twice and squished my heart like a grape and well, you know, other countless unimportant things like break my trust in you, etc.” Pathetic.  _ It is just Ed _ , he mutters under his breath, in the back of his mind, bites it with his nails into the skin of his hand,  _ shirtless, uninhibited Ed, but just Ed, and yet- _

“Oswald,” he speaks the name with that intonation he used to use before the mirror, by the fireplace of his father’s house, on the corridor before parting ways for bed. It is irresistible, sensible, and Oswald allows himself to meet his eyes again, having studied his own eyes enough to know the vulnerable look plastered in them. “I’m sorry,” Ed speaks and Oswald tries to hide the way his sight falls to his lips in that moment, tells himself it's to see him speak the words that have been missing between them for decades, when in reality he knows it's just another unfulfilled fantasy, stagnant like wine. 

“You’re not,” he utters as an immediate afterthought, fingering the knife he hides at the tip of his cane, sounding wistful and broken to himself. The world spins again in the same slow motion, accusations flowing indistinguishably from his mouth. His mind turns to the useless days and restless nights of longing, the pain and ever-present hurt of unrequited love, the irreconcilable ache of betrayal. Turning from Ed, Oswald walks back to the mirror in an irritated huff, counting once more the creases at his temples attributing each to Ed-related pains and trepidations. He then proceeds to stare at the grey in his hair, enumerating the ways in which Ed’s decisions affected or changed him. The looking glass is cruel to the Penguin then, withholding nothing, praising little, exposing all.  

The manic rush distracts him from seeing the Riddler approach soft on his steps behind him, having discarded his shoes during the conversation. Nygma isn’t sure what possesses him, whether it's pity or a long-buried impulse, but he wraps his arms around Oswald’s shoulders, holding him close. The Penguin watches the way his eyes widen, focusing on the majestic sight of seeing his own pupils slowly expand until his bright blue iris is consumed by the void, before noticing Ed’s confident hold. A kiss follows suit, merely a maddening brush against his earlobe. 

The feeling is electric and filled with dread, as Oswald turns around to face him, knife in hand and raised to his carotid artery. “I want to kill you, Ed!” He yells and he means it with every fiber of his being, for every useless day and restless night, for each morning he had to wake up alone.

“I know,” Ed responds, not calculative or condescending, but sincere. It is then that he reaches closer, watching Oswald’s reactions carefully, and pulls with his teeth on the monocle’s chain releasing it with a gentle fall to the side. The action is mirrored by the later clang of the knife on the floor behind him, and content with his maneuver, Edward smiles faintly, feeling Penguin turn limp in his grasp. Standing before him, the arm that held the knife still extended on his shoulder, Oswald’s expression betrays his surprise at Ed’s actions, a small, involuntary tear, making its way down his cheek.  

To Ed, there’s hardly any difference between then and now, between them. The heights are the same, the weights seemingly equivalent. His eyes remain a sweet baby blue behind gadgets and facades of strength. It's all too simple for Ed to lift Oswald up, carrying him to sit atop his desk, fine wood creaking faintly under his weight. His face is vulnerable and broken, the sight of china from a precarious height, disbelief marring his expression. 

“Ed,” Oswald stutters slightly in saying as a chill runs through his spine unbidden. Before him lies a fantasy fulfilled, one hand outlining the shape of Ed’s chest, the other tangling his fingers in his unruly hair, pulling on ends, bringing him closer as their noses touch. Coping as best as he can with the thunderous, torturous beat of his heart and the alerts going off in his head, he hears his voice beg, “Don’t do this to me. Don’t give me hope if all you’re going to do is take it with you again.” It is then that Ed takes the hand resting on his chest and raises it to the rim of his glasses, asking wordlessly for them to be removed, and in doing so allowing Oswald the sight of the void that consumed his irises in Ed’s own.    

A blissful quiet follows as lips descend upon lips; longing with each item that falls into frosted tile, loving with each vicious grip into heated skin, and betraying with each crystallized breath faintly smelling of tobacco that all’s somehow right once again in the world. Ed speaks words of apology and poetic endearments of regret, while Oswald basks in the warmth and silk-like texture of his skin, crying softly between sweet kisses.  

And in that cool Gotham evening air that could chill a person’s soul, as Oswald rises from Ed’s embrace in a moment of curiosity and heads for his mirror, he no longer sees his destruction along a running strand of time in each crease and crevice lining his electric eyes, but rather a beauty unimaginable in green and purple hues against his pale skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to leave a comment. Let us know what you think :)


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